[Virginal. Virginal. Oh what a shameless damned cheat he is for that galvanizing truth, as it if might yet be palpable. Tangible. That if she clenches her thighs shut tight enough (she isn't), she might just sense that part of her that unlike her other self, doesn't know the map of curtained rooms that reek of perfume, or the countless blunted fingers that never did. All in ways she never considered before now given the impulsive urge to drive a shiver up his spine and force his cock to go thick against the inseam of his slacks.
It's dangerous. Electric. Rattles with an intimate hunger that has fabric clinging to the inner junction of her thighs....]
You're right.
[She gives him what he hunts for when she hitches into his palming grip. Into the line of his hips and the not-quite present shape of stirring promise. How it nestles tight and warm and right against changed contours.That's the cruelty of it— the fun of it. What she expects, right down to the simplest of touches (it should be their cocks meeting. A heady stirring that works up into a swell. And yet instead, he moves in closer to pull flush. To offer friction that crawls inward like an invitation before it coils. Cinches.) Every inch he takes, she melts around it. Surrenders to it. Letting him in to feel what he can't see when she's dressed in everything that doesn't fit her, swaddled in a sun resistant cloak (even his leggings she'd stolen and tied off across her hips, and when none of her shoes fit well enough to wear, it's why the soles of her feet are scalded— why they snarl under pressure— but ask her if she cares). She's living without drawing breath. riding this to the very brink. He can buck and froth all he likes, and ruck his spine into a bow between her hips, impatient, but the reins are in her hands. Her grip the one that leads.]
I didn't come here for anything but you.
[The gauntlets don't fit her well; it's the pads of her fingertips that push in when she tries to wedge them closer.]
And believe me, I am certain that the next few hours will be torture when all I crave is the knowledge of what it might feel like to hike my leg and slip you in beneath my smallclothes— or to melt around you as you mount me in three places, rather than two....
[Gods. Gods her next exhale is a sharp one— a keening whine for how her belly's taut with urgency. A scathing need to drive him to the ground and take what's squeezed against her.]
But when I think about tomorrow, and how you might salivate to see me and stay silent as I meet your eyes— waiting for your chance to slip off and be paid solely to wet your tongue and sow chaos amongst a herd that thinks you on collared leash without lifting so much as a single [—snap— and her teeth click at his ear] finger [—click— and she's courting at his throat] of your own. [And the last move that assails him is her body crowding his: grip parting to leave room for the unbridled pillow of her chest.]
I want you to be good for me. To be well-behaved and swallow down all those urges knowing that the end reward will be that much sweeter.
[It's her mouth at his chin, craning up to reach it. Her eyes chasing his, no matter where his focus rests, red eyes darker and deeper than a lurid flood.]
Do you think you can manage it, my darling catulus?
no subject
It's dangerous. Electric. Rattles with an intimate hunger that has fabric clinging to the inner junction of her thighs....]
You're right.
[She gives him what he hunts for when she hitches into his palming grip. Into the line of his hips and the not-quite present shape of stirring promise. How it nestles tight and warm and right against changed contours.That's the cruelty of it— the fun of it. What she expects, right down to the simplest of touches (it should be their cocks meeting. A heady stirring that works up into a swell. And yet instead, he moves in closer to pull flush. To offer friction that crawls inward like an invitation before it coils. Cinches.) Every inch he takes, she melts around it. Surrenders to it. Letting him in to feel what he can't see when she's dressed in everything that doesn't fit her, swaddled in a sun resistant cloak (even his leggings she'd stolen and tied off across her hips, and when none of her shoes fit well enough to wear, it's why the soles of her feet are scalded— why they snarl under pressure— but ask her if she cares). She's living without drawing breath. riding this to the very brink. He can buck and froth all he likes, and ruck his spine into a bow between her hips, impatient, but the reins are in her hands. Her grip the one that leads.]
I didn't come here for anything but you.
[The gauntlets don't fit her well; it's the pads of her fingertips that push in when she tries to wedge them closer.]
And believe me, I am certain that the next few hours will be torture when all I crave is the knowledge of what it might feel like to hike my leg and slip you in beneath my smallclothes— or to melt around you as you mount me in three places, rather than two....
[Gods. Gods her next exhale is a sharp one— a keening whine for how her belly's taut with urgency. A scathing need to drive him to the ground and take what's squeezed against her.]
But when I think about tomorrow, and how you might salivate to see me and stay silent as I meet your eyes— waiting for your chance to slip off and be paid solely to wet your tongue and sow chaos amongst a herd that thinks you on collared leash without lifting so much as a single [—snap— and her teeth click at his ear] finger [—click— and she's courting at his throat] of your own. [And the last move that assails him is her body crowding his: grip parting to leave room for the unbridled pillow of her chest.]
I want you to be good for me. To be well-behaved and swallow down all those urges knowing that the end reward will be that much sweeter.
[It's her mouth at his chin, craning up to reach it. Her eyes chasing his, no matter where his focus rests, red eyes darker and deeper than a lurid flood.]
Do you think you can manage it, my darling catulus?